Third You Die (Kevin Connor Mystery) (14 page)

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Authors: Scott Sherman

BOOK: Third You Die (Kevin Connor Mystery)
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18
Lover Boys
“So, let him take some dirty pictures,” an annoyed Freddy said. “Who cares? It’s not like you haven’t peddled your papayas before.”
“Don’t pay him any attention,” his part-time boyfriend, Cody, chimed in. “I think it’s great you have standards. Well, that you have standards
now
. You tell that gross old man to keep his money—you have
morals
.”
It was like having a devil and an angel sitting across from me in the greasy downtown diner where we’d met for breakfast. Tony had to leave early to meet with the coroner, and when I called Freddy, Cody had been sleeping over. “We’ll both meet you,” he said cheerily, seeing no need to check first with his evening’s company. Which wasn’t wrong—Freddy was Cody’s First Big Gay Crush, and he’d have followed Freddy anywhere.
Not that he had any reason to be so clingy. Cody was absolutely adorable, with a young, fresh-scrubbed innocence that was no act. You wanted to grab him by his oversized ears and kiss the down-home country right out of him.
“First of all,” I clarified to them both, “I wouldn’t be letting Mason film me for the money. I don’t
need
the money.”
“I’ll take the money,” Freddy said, raising his hand.
“Then let him take pictures of
your
wiener,” I suggested. “The only reason I’m even considering it is because the owner of the company told me the only way he’d talk to me is if I’d film one of his ‘auditions.’ ”
SwordFight put out a highly successful series of these “audition” collections, in which guys were interviewed on film about why they wanted to be in adult movies and then were talked through their first “performance”—which usually consisted of a clumsy disrobing and an even more awkward masturbation. Sometimes, the sessions went disastrously wrong, with the applicant too stoned, nervous, or heterosexual to get it up.
During the whole depressing episode, Mason or one of his associates gave instructions, feedback, and encouragement to the desperate, cash-starved performer.
“I love those videos,” Freddy said, dreamy-eyed. “They always have these guys who are so . . . sincere.”
Cody blushed. Whether because he was embarrassed by Freddy’s love for porn or his own remembered first-time discomfort I wasn’t sure.
“Explain,” I prompted Freddy with real curiosity, “what is hot about watching someone being awkward? Do you get a woody watching
America’s Funniest Home Videos,
too?”
Freddy picked up a French toast stick from his plate and pointed it at me like a dagger. “Because it’s
real,
” he instructed. “Most porn is so slick and overproduced. Too choreographed. But those auditions are authentic. When the guys get turned on despite themselves, it’s really hot.”
“Yeah, but how painful is it when they don’t? It’s like when you go home with a guy and they’re so not into you they don’t even get hard.”
Freddy looked at me like I was speaking Martian. “That happens to people?”
I rolled my eyes. “It happens to everyone.”
“It’s happened to me,” Cody offered.
“Huh,” Freddy said. “Maybe I’m the weird one. Not only have I never had a guy who couldn’t bone at my apartment, I can’t remember a time when I didn’t have them precoming on the way there.
“Maybe,” he pondered, “the sample size is too small because I haven’t slept with enough guys.”
Cody and I smacked him at the same time.
“What?” he asked. “Is it my fault I’m human Viagra?”
“Closer to human ipecac syrup,” Cody, who was a nurse, mumbled. To me: “It’s a medicine that induces vomiting.”
I snorted tea through my nose.
“No,
that
would be the human version of ipecac,” Freddy said, referring to my Julia Roberts moment. “So gross.”
“Speaking of gross,” I said, bringing the conversation back around, “I am not thinking of doing an ‘audition’ video with that troll Mason Jarre for the money. I’m thinking of . . . putting myself through that humiliation because it’s the only way he said he’d be willing to talk to me about Brent Havens and where he might have gone.”
“Like that’s the most humiliating thing you’ve ever had to do,” Freddy observed. “Weren’t you the guy who let someone dress him up like a clown while he pelted you with apple pies?”
There are some stories I wish I’d never shared with that vicious bitch I call my best friend. Which is to say, most stories.
Yes, I worked as a male prostitute and couldn’t claim the high ground here. But my objections to being filmed weren’t based on some sliding scale of morality. They were practical.
As a hustler, whatever happened between my clients and me was private. There was security in that. I didn’t have to worry about my friends, family, or strangers knowing things about me I didn’t want them to. Since my clients had even more to lose than I did, my personal choices were kept just that—personal.
Putting yourself on film seemed infinitely more risky to me. Movies lasted forever, especially in digital form. Your image was out there for the rest of your life and beyond, viewable by anyone at any time.
Some guys justified their porn anonymity by the sheer volume of it. With the millions of hours of video available, what were the chances
theirs
would be found?
But already, facial recognition technology has become ubiquitous and easy to use in everything from iPhoto to Facebook. How long before you could search the entire Internet for someone’s image—every picture, every video, every Web page? We were entering whatever comes after the Age of Privacy, and if you were counting on keeping any secrets, you’d better keep them
in
your head and
off
the Web.
The work I’d done was different. If I was with a client, and something he said made me uncomfortable or regretful, all I had to do was leave. Had that encounter been filmed, though, I’d have to live with the threat of those images coming out at any time. Where would my presidential bid be then?
Cody almost dropped his coffee. “Someone paid to throw pies at you? Really?”
Okay, maybe my private life wasn’t 100 percent safe. Not with a big-mouthed friend like Freddy. Luckily, it was matched by his big heart. He’d tell my secrets only to tease me, not destroy me. He’d never use them to hurt me. He knew I’d already told Cody about my former profession, otherwise he wouldn’t have said a word.
What if Brent wasn’t so lucky? Could it have been his working in the sex industry that led to his disappearance? Was he being blackmailed? Held prisoner? I had to know.
“I’m going to do it,” I announced.
“More clown sex?” Freddy asked, with faux innocence. “Perfect timing since we’re at a diner. Shall we order a Boston cream pie to bring home with you?”
“The audition, dummy.”
Cody leaned forward. “You sure?”
“It’s the only way. Mason Jarre knows something. I have to get him talking.”
“You’ve seen those videos, Kevin,” Freddy said. “The ‘talking’ is mostly along the lines of ‘Now, take those shorts off for me,’ and ‘Yeah, baby, that’s hot.’ It’s not the most rewarding conversation.”
“In my experience,” I said, a bit haughtily, picking a sausage off his plate and holding it suggestively, “when I get a guy alone, the more clothing I take off, the more I can get him to say.”
“Yeah,” Freddy said, smirking, “like ‘Yuck! Get me the hell out of here!’ ”
“You’re horrible,” I scowled.
“ ‘Please, lord, strike me blind!’ ” Freddy continued. “ ‘Where’s the rest of it? I ordered a
male
prostitute!’ ”
I threw the sausage at him.
Freddy put an arm around Cody. “See, honey? He really gets into that whole food-throwing thing.”
Cody gave him a half smile and then considered me with concern.
“Are you going to be okay?” he asked me.
“I think I can handle it,” I assured him.
“No,” Freddy said, pushing away his plate so he could take my hands. “This is serious. You don’t know who you’re dealing with. You’d better go in ready for the worst. I’m getting you a weapon.”
It was sweet that Freddy cared. I could hardly see myself with a gun, though.
“Waiter,” Freddy called. “We’ll take an apple walnut cake to go.”
I pulled my hands away from him.
“What?”
he asked. “We know you can toss a baked good with the best of them. I figure the nuts will make it even deadlier. Like edible shrapnel.”
“Would you stop teasing him?” Cody said.
“Don’t worry about it, Codes. I’m used to it.”
“Yeah,” Freddy said. “It’s part of our charming dynamic. Besides, the cake is for me. I’ll eat it while I wait.”
“Wait for what?” Cody asked.
“For Jerkoff Boy over there,” Freddy said, pointing his thumb at me. “What, you think I’d let him go there alone?”
He turned to me. “You call me when you get an appointment. I’ll wait outside.”
“You’d do that for me?”
“You asshole,” Freddy said, helping himself to the croissant I had in front of me. “You know I’d do anything for you.”
Cody stroked Freddy’s back. I could read in his eyes what he was thinking:
I hope that someday this big, hot man will be there for me like that.
I was genuinely touched and had to swallow back a lump in my throat. “Thank you,” I said, an unexpected huskiness in my voice.
“Except clown sex,” Freddy clarified. “That’s just sick.”
19
Undercover
“I didn’t think it would happen this quickly,” I said, as an unseen Mason Jarre set up video equipment somewhere to my left.
I’d called his office shortly after breakfast to arrange the meeting. His assistant and former porn star was brusquely efficient. “We can get you in at two.”
“Today?” I’d croaked.
“Yes, today,” Pierce stated. “Do you still have the address?”
“Yeah, but
today?
” I wasn’t looking forward to this. I figured I’d have a few days to prepare, although, thinking about it, I wasn’t sure what that would entail. “Can we do it later in the week?”
“We can do it today at two,” Pierce agreed with himself.
“Well . . .”
“Mason did explain you’d be paid one thousand dollars for the primary audition, with possible bonuses depending on what you are willing to do.”
“Willing to do?”
“Extra acts not including the opening interview with masturbation.”
Something about the way he said that last part made it sound like an item on a Chinese menu.
I’ll have an Opening Interview with Masturbation. Sauce on the side, so to speak.
“You know, I’m not totally committed to doing the whole—”
“Mr. Jarre told me about his conversation with you. I’m well aware of your wavering intentions, Mr. Connor. Unlike some people, I don’t need the same thing repeated to me a hundred times in order to understand it. But as Mr. Jarre made clear, the only way he’ll be able to fit you into his schedule is if you agree to be taped while talking with him. Two birds with one bone, if you will. As is the case with any of our models, you will not be expected to do anything with which you are uncomfortable or that you’re unwilling to do. Of course, your remuneration will be commensurate with the acts you’re willing to perform.”
He paused for dramatic effect.
“So, will we see you at two?”
“I’ll be there,” I said with obviously forced cheer.
“Very well,” he confirmed. “I’m breathless with anticipation.”
I wish.
We said good-bye and I made my next call.
“You are not,” Freddy growled, trying to sound threatening, “going there alone.”
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate your offer,” I told him for the third time. “It’s just that I don’t want to do anything to put them on guard. I’ll be fine. I promise. I’ve walked into worse situations than this one.”
“Yeah,” Freddy agreed. “You’ve also been shot at, beaten, and tied up against your will.”
True that.
“The guys at SwordFight might not be model citizens, but it is a legitimate business. I’m glad you’ll know where I am, just in case, but I don’t think I have anything to worry about.”
“It’s not that I think they’re going to kill you,” Freddy said. “But I figured out a way to keep you from having to blow your cover—no pun intended—on film. I go with you. We tell them I’m your boyfriend and that I’m going to wait outside. Then, in twenty minutes, after you’ve had enough time to ask your questions but before they get you down to your skivvies, I burst into the studio in a jealous rage and drag you out of there.”
“That would work,” I said, “assuming I could get my questions answered that fast. And assuming they don’t call the cops on your ass and get you arrested for trespassing or felony interruption of a jerk-off scene.”
I didn’t want to inflate Freddy’s ego by telling him my more likely concern—that they’d get one look at him and wind up offering him ten times what they’d pay me for an audition.
And that, knowing him, he’d take it.
“So, then how do you get out of there?” he asked. “They’re gonna make you sign some kind of waiver or contract, right? You probably can’t just walk out in the middle without getting arrested yourself. Or sued.”
“No, I think you’re right. I also don’t want to make enemies of these guys. Even if I don’t get the answers I want today, I may need their help later on.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
“I have an idea,” I said. “Believe it or not, it actually came from something my mother said.”
“That’s it,” Freddy said, more determined than ever. “I’m coming with you. Your solution is based on something
your mother said?
You’ve obviously lost your mind and need supervision.”
“No,” I said. “Listen.” I told him what I had in mind.
“Huh,” he said after I was done. “That’s actually not bad.”
“See?” I reassured him. “I told you I’d be fine.”
“I’m not saying that,” he countered. “This is
you
we’re talking about, Kevin. You had plans those times you got shot, beaten, and tied up, too. Somehow, you and plans don’t get along very well.”
“This one, I think I’ve got.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, let me ask you a question—did you remember to take your medication this morning?”
“Of course,” I lied, opening my drawer to take out the vial of Adderall I kept there. One pill would help me keep my thoughts more organized as the day went on. I downed it dry.
“You did, huh? Then what was that swallowing sound I just heard.”
“That was, uh, practicing. You don’t audition for porn without practicing your swallowing.”
 
SwordFight Productions had their own building in New York’s trendy Tribeca neighborhood. When I arrived, I was given consent forms to sign and shown to the room where the shooting occurred.
A floor of the building had been converted into one large studio, where industrial video lights hung from the ceiling and various props littered the corners.
The area where I was told to wait was made up to look like a tacky motel room. I was perched on the end of a cheap twin bed. A plywood nightstand next to it supported a plastic table lamp with a dented cardboard shade and a large pump bottle of SwordFight-branded lube. Above the bed hung a painting of a lighthouse so bad it might have been meant as parody. And why a lighthouse? Was it chosen for its phallic symbolism, for the viewer too impatient to wait for the actual phallus that would be making its appearance soon enough?
I was nervous. I was babbling, if only in my own head.
Focus, Kevin, focus.
I was also hot, but not in the good way. I was literally overheating. The studio lights roasted me like a tanning bed in a
Final Destination
movie. Maybe it was intentional—one of Mason’s techniques to get first-time models naked as quickly as possible. No pressure. Strip or melt. You decide.
The lights also served to blind me to whatever Mason was doing out there. I heard him puttering around, but he hadn’t answered me. I found it unnerving.
“Mason?” I asked.
Long pause. “Yeah?”
“I said, ‘I hadn’t expected to get in here so quickly.’ ”
“Huhn,” he grunted.
He’d been chatty at the party and on the phone. Here, not so much.
He stepped from behind the lights into my faux hotel room.
I’d been wrong.
“I’m not Mason,” Pierce Deepley, former porn star and Mason’s current assistant, announced. “He stepped out five minutes ago. He had to take a call. I was just finishing setting up for him.”
I didn’t like not knowing who was in the room. Maybe there were others there, in the shadows. Unseen viewers hidden by the darkness.
But wasn’t that a metaphor for the whole experience of being in porn? You never knew who was watching. That was a level of control you had to sacrifice.
Maybe that was part of the appeal. For a model into exhibitionism, it could be the perfect trifecta: getting paid for getting off by showing off.
For me, not so much.
“Oh, okay,” I said to Pierce. “I was thinking it was strange Mason didn’t answer me. Now I get it.”
“I don’t know he would have answered you even if he were here,” Pierce said. He always sounded annoyed to be speaking to me, as if I were somehow beneath his attention. “Seeing as how you didn’t actually ask anything,” he added.
“Sorry, I forgot to phrase my response in the form of a question,” I clarified, feeling as if I were being chided by Alex Trebek.
Pierce exhaled noisily through his mouth. “Don’t take it personally. It’s not as if you’re
that
special.” I think Pierce would have preferred not responding at all, but he couldn’t miss this chance to put me in my place.
“When a potential model calls to schedule an audition, we
always
try to get him in as soon as we can. That day, if possible. All we require are some pictures before we make an appointment. No point in wasting everyone’s time if he’s a pig.
“If he has the right looks, though, we move fast. The decision to appear on film is generally made on impulse. Often it’s out of desperation—money is tight and there are no other options. I can’t tell you what a boon the bad economy has been for us. A nine percent unemployment rate is the best recruitment tool we have.
“Still, given a day or two to consider it, an applicant may chicken out. Maybe he’ll decide that job at the fast food place isn’t so bad after all. Or, he’ll swallow his pride and ask Mommy and Daddy for a loan, even though he’d sworn not to. That’s why it’s imperative we get him on video before he has a chance to identify other options.”
“So, basically,” I said, unable to stop myself from getting in a dig, “your business model is to take advantage of people at their weakest.”
I couldn’t make out the features of Pierce’s face, but I could hear the smug smile in his voice. “Yes, we’re just awful, aren’t we? Like those restaurants that feed you when you want to eat. How dare they profit from your hunger?
“Or the credit card companies that are only too happy to extend funds to young people at interest rates so punishing they were previously restricted to the practices of loan sharks and Shakespearean villains.
“How horrid of us,” he continued, on a roll, justifying his actions in a controlled but impassioned rant he’d probably given dozens of times before, “to provide these young men with work that pays more than they’d make anywhere else, while protecting their health and safety. No, better they should work for eight dollars an hour in a coal mine getting emphysema than make a hundred times that for suffering the indignity of a well-delivered blow job.”
Jeez. I had to admit he made a good case. Not that I’d admit it to
him
.
“It’s not like you’re doing it out of charity,” I pointed out. “You guys are doing pretty well yourselves.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have the time or the inclination to educate you on the basic tenets of capitalism,” he said, dialing his condescension meter to eleven. “Does SwordFight make money from the efforts of its employees? Absolutely. So does every company in the world. I’m simply explaining that, in my opinion, we pay and treat the men who work for us more than fairly. Often, a good deal more.”
“So, you don’t feel badly about taking advantage of guys at their most desperate?”
“I wouldn’t say the majority of our models come to us when they’re at their ‘most desperate,’ as you so charmingly put it. But, even if they did, why would I feel badly about providing employment that I truly believe is in their best interest? Extremely generous compensation for work that is not only safe, but, for those without Puritanical hang-ups, quite fun? The best sex many of them will ever have, in fact.
“And for those who truly are in immediate need of cash? What would be preferable in your world—to offer them nothing? Or to give them a choice?
“We’re not holding a gun to their heads, Mr. Connor. Just a camera and a paycheck. Does that really make us bad guys?”
I kind of hated myself for not having a snappy comeback to that. Having been a sex worker myself, I didn’t harbor the Puritanical streak Deepley deplored. Nor did I think it was inherently immoral to make or appear in porn. People had a right to use their bodies in any way they wanted. If they could make a living by giving pleasure to others, more power to them.
So, if it wasn’t their business I objected to, why was I picking this fight with Pierce?
It was, I realized, because I didn’t like
him
. Or Mason. It wasn’t their work that made them “bad guys.” It was their characters.
From the moment I met them, they struck me as manipulative, uncaring, exploitative assholes. Their callous lack of concern for Brent only reinforced that initial impression.
Maybe I was being naïve, but it seemed to me there was a way they could run their business while remaining human beings.
“Sorry,” Mason’s voice boomed as he walked back into the studio. “That was the owner of EuroBoys Films. We’re forming a partnership with them. Actually, it’s more of an acquisition.”
By now, Mason had walked over to where Pierce stood. He put his arm around his assistant in a celebratory gesture.
Go team.

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